


An Act of Faith

by JennyPAK



Series: Truth is Beautiful [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Confusion, Cooking, Drugs, Fairy Tales, Gen, Mycroft's Meddling, Original Character(s), Reichenbach Feels, Riddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-13
Updated: 2013-04-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 08:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JennyPAK/pseuds/JennyPAK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade has never really liked riddles, but when a mysterious woman starts crashing crime scenes and leaving him cryptic messages he can’t help but pay attention and all she’s asking for is a little bit of faith. A companion to, ‘Flowers of Hope’</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Act of Faith

 

* * *

It had started months ago. DI Gregory Lestrade had arrived on the scene of a particularly gruesome murder suicide, when a woman called to him.

“Inspector!” he turned around to see a well-dressed woman waiting patiently on the other side of the crime scene tape.Once she had his attention he tried to walk over to her but she ran. Her coat flapped behind her, like something from a movie, as she fled out on to the main street.

  


The next time Greg saw her he was looking into a string of burglaries. He didn’t actually see her but he heard her.  
“Do you like fairy tales?” she asked in a whisper but by the time he turned she was gone.

It happened again and again. She slowly imparted her message. Every time he was at a crime scene, anytime, anywhere, any case, she was there. After her fifth visit Greg had taken to writing each message down and they were currently laid out on his desk at home like a cryptic puzzle. The messages read like this:

  


Inspector!  
Do you like fairy tales?  
What about fables or myths or legends?  
I hope you like them...  
because I know a fairy tale about you.  
In this story, you’re the king...  
I think you make a good king...  
there are many knights who follow you...  
aspire to your example.  
Many knights risk their life for their king...  
but I suppose that’s their duty.  
One knight did more than risk...  
he sacrificed...  
but the king is blind...  
blinkered by doubt in his bravest knight.  
I can’t deny my anger...  
but this is a scene with too many good men...  
trapped in the confines of another man’s narrative.  
Pity outweighs my anger.  
I am no revolutionary.

  


In these twenty messages Greg couldn’t find a meaning. Was it a metaphorical sacrifice, or was it as sinister as it sounded? Who were the knights? Police officers, friends, family, the population in general? Greg had never been very good at riddles, a weakness of his since he could remember.

  


It wasn’t until sometime later that the pieces began to fall into place. Greg was in his office working through some paperwork. It was moments like that, which made Greg wonder how he’d kept his job after _the incident_. It was the only title he offered the chain of events that led to Sherlock throwing himself off a roof. A lot of officers had been demoted or outright fired for just associating with Sherlock Holmes. The name brought about fierce contempt amongst the yarders. Yet somehow, Greg was still here. Of course he was always wary. The chief superintendent had apparently wanted him gone like the others but an order had come from on high listing several officers who were not to be penalised. Greg’s name was on it, but that didn’t mean the chief had to like it.

  


Everyday Greg laughed at jokes made at 'the freak's’ expense He didn’t fight back when they called Sherlock a liar, a fake or a psychopath. Greg had so desperately wanted to reply with Sherlock’s usual response. He wasn’t a psychopath he was a high-functioning sociopath. Greg cringed when he heard the dead man’s voice in his head scathingly insulting anyone who dared sully his memory. Some days the disembodied voice turned on Greg for not fighting back, and Greg truly wished he could. Quiet confidence wasn’t enough, and even that was failing. Greg tried desperately to focus on the papers in front of him.

  


Luckily he was interrupted by Dimmock, who had managed to keep his rank as well.  
“Lestrade, you know about this woman who’s been making a nuisance of herself?” he asked plopping into a chair.  
“The mad one?” he asked remembering officers talking about her vaguely.  
“Yeah her, for some reason she’s my responsibility and I’ve got no idea how to get rid of her.”  
“You could charge her for obstruction, easy”  
“Not so easy. I’ve tried; every time she gets brought in she demands to speak to the king. She’s only got one thing to say to everyone else and that’s I quote, “I need not answer to you, I only answer to my king.” That’s all she says and no matter what I do, she escapes, two hours after she’s been put in a cell. Every single time. Then she gets arrested again. I’m looking like an idiot here. Anything you’ve got would be good”  
“Well, have you tried finding the king? If you get him, maybe she’ll talk.”  
“I’ve tried almost every high ranking officer in the building. Nothing.”

  


Greg thought for a moment, then it hit. A woman was looking for the king, he was the king.  
“Next time she comes in, let me know. I’ll see if I can help” Greg said and Dimmock thanked him before running off.  
That evening he was called to see the mad woman.  
As he suspected it was the woman who’d left him all those messages. However she looked past him to Donavan and her face contorted with fury.  
“Blasphemer!” she yelled, “Traitor! Murderess you sent a comrade in arms to his death...” she kept yelling as Sally was taken from the room.  
When Greg returned she stood and curtsied silently pulling at the edges of her coat. “Your highness”  
“Who are you?” Greg tried.  
“A loyal subject, you highness” she said cryptically, sitting back down. Greg sighed.  
“Why do you speak in riddles?”  
“Not riddles, rhymes, a story teller must be a performer,”

  


Greg had no idea how to proceed, he just looked at her and she looked back, smirking slightly. Then he started to piece things together. She was a story teller who knew a fairy tale about him.  
“Tell me your story”  
She grinned, apparently he’d got it right.  
“There are many knights who serve you and the kingdom. They’re all competing no matter what they say. They all want to be the king’s favourite. There was a knight who had not been serving long, who quickly left the others in the dust. He was the bravest, cleverest knight of all.”  
She suddenly stopped. Greg was trying to understand. Did she mean Sherlock?

  


“In Australia, they have a thing called ‘Tall Poppy Syndrome’. When someone grows too tall, rises too far above the rest, they must be thrown to the ground – of course not in a literal sense. The murder rate would be much higher, or would that be suicide rate?”  
She was definitely talking about Sherlock. Was she saying he was pushed? Surely John would have made more of a fuss if he’d seen something happen. This was confusing, he hated riddles.  
“Don’t fret sire. All the best knights are born again as legends. All you need is a little faith. I shan’t make a nuisance of myself anymore. Send my apologies to Dimmock”  
She escaped once more and never returned to New Scotland Yard; but that wasn’t the last time Greg saw her.

  


~0~

  


It was the next day when Greg stumbled home. He was tired, and hungry, and sore. His flat was dark and he couldn’t be bothered to turn on a light.

  


He threw himself down onto a chair at his kitchen table, eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. Then he heard it, a soft, grating noise, coming from the kitchen. The sound stopped and Greg tensed as a dim light was flicked on. The ‘mad woman’ was standing in his kitchen cooking, smiling sweetly at him. She was wearing a dress with a floral pattern and made her look like a preschool teacher; soft around the edges but still an authority figure. She watched him gape at her and went back to her bowl, continuing to grate the rind off an orange.  
“You broke into my flat...to bake a cake?” he asked incredulously.  
“Well not a cake, more of a loaf. Like banana bread, but with oranges” she didn’t look up at him.  
Greg just kept looking at her, not sure what to say. Last time someone broke into his flat it was Sherlock stealing his socks for an experiment. It was obscene how much he missed that man.  
“Why have you been going through all this secret squirrel business, if you could have just broken in and talked to me?”  
“I had to prove I wasn’t mad” she said as if it were obvious.  
“By speaking in riddles and breaking into my home to bake me a cake?” she glared at him, “loaf” he corrected.  
“Well if I was a stranger you’d throw me out, have me arrested; something like that. Now you know who I am, we can have a chat”  
“But I don’t know who you are.”  
“You know I know Sherlock, that makes me far more interesting”  
She went back to her baking, and the inspector watched her carefully.

  


“Present tense” he said eventual, “you used present tense. You said you know him, not you knew him”  
Her face took on a soft, sort of contemplative look.  
“Doesn’t the word Faith annoy you?”  
“What?” Greg didn’t move as she poured the mixture into a pan an put it in the oven.  
“Faith, the word, the sentiment behind it. It bothers me a lot you know. In old stories, particularly of a religious nature, they throw around Faith.”  
“What does that matter? What do you know about Sherlock?” Greg wouldn’t admit it, but he was worried. He’d seen Sherlock’s body on a slab, dead. If he wasn’t, well, anything could have happened to him.  
“Just listen inspector. I know I seem a bit dotty, but I have a point to make. You need a point of reference or I’ll just confuse you”  
“You’ve confused me already”  
“Then sit back and listen” she said soothingly as she began cleaning up the kitchen.  
Greg didn’t know what to do, so he sat back and listened.

  


“As I was saying, Faith is a funny word. Faith isn’t actually that powerful, it doesn’t do anything. You can have faith, without acting on it. Faith itself doesn’t make people do anything. It irritates me when stories say, ‘Faith saved the day’ because it didn’t. Faith is a feeling, it’s intangible, it can’t put out fires or save lives. It just can’t. Why do we always assume that faith has to be that emotion. Someone called Faith, however can put out fires and save lives. A person, who acts, can do nearly anything if they try. It’s not the faith it is the act that makes the difference. You see?”  
Greg nodded wondering where all this was going.  
“One day, someone will say that ‘Faith’ and ‘Hope’ brought back Sherlock Holmes. Technically they won’t be lying”  
“But you just said...”Greg began.  
“I am Faith, I am acting and I will bring him back”  
“He’s dead, I saw him dead” Greg wasn’t sure who he was convincing.  
“Remember how I said, you can have faith without acting. You need to act though. If you don’t believe then you won’t see”  
“What does that mean?” Greg was too tired to try and understand her riddles.  
“You know religious people are always finding the face of Jesus, or whichever god they subscribe to, in things. Toast, clouds, walls, whatever. An atheist won’t see anything, maybe a face, but there will be no recognition. So if a god decides to come to Earth, only the people who believe in that god will see him. Everyone else, will just see a person in a costume, or an animal, or an alien. They’ll try to rationalise it away.”  
“I don’t understand”  
She smiled warmly, “If you have faith, then when he returns, you will see him, you will recognise him, you will act on your faith”

  


“I’m a police officer, I can’t just believe. I need proof, evidence, something real”  
“That’s the problem though isn’t it? You need me, Faith, and my mother, Hope, before you see my brother...”  
“Proof” they said together  
“Have faith in Sherlock, have faith in me and when he returns you’ll be there, that will mean more to him than you could ever understand” she sounded distant almost sad, “He didn’t want to go Inspector, he really didn’t, but he just couldn’t let you all die”  
“What do you mean, are we in danger? What about John?”  
“You’re all safe now, the knight sacrificed himself for his king, his doctor, and his landlady. It was either him or all of you. It’s better this way”  
“So he’s not dead?”  
“No, no he’s not, but I have no proof. You have to believe, you have to have faith. The question is, do you believe in Sherlock Holmes?”

  


Greg wanted to say yes. He wanted to believe, but Sherlock’s face covered in blood, eyes open and expressionless kept flashing across his mind. Sherlock was dead, he had to be. The young pathologist who had a massive crush on the consulting detective had been crying the whole time. John had drifted in and out of reality. Even the brother, whom Greg had never met before, had been at the funeral, his face a mask of controlled sorrow and regret. There was no way to tell, if Sherlock was alive, no one knew. Even this woman didn’t have any proof. She had faith, but did he?

  


The alarm on the oven broke him out of his thoughts. The loaf was apparently done, as the woman flipped it out of the pan onto a cooling rack. She cut two slices and offered him one as she ate the other. Greg thought it was a bad idea to eat the slice, but she’d just eaten her own and he was so hungry. She smiled warmly and cut him another piece as he finished the first.  
“Have a pleasant evening Inspector, and please, have faith” and she slipped away down to the street where the black Audi was waiting for her.

  


“You do realise that drugging a police officer is a state offence” Mycroft said dryly as the car pulled away from the curb.  
“It’s not like he’ll remember, anyway I didn’t hurt him, just made him a little fuzzy. I hardly want him to remember my face accurately”  
“Of all the things I thought you’d do, I never thought you’d bake him a cake”  
“It’s a loaf” she corrected.  
“I believe the recipe is for, Orange Coconut Cake dear”  
“Still tastes like a loaf” she muttered, “Why am I doing this?” she asked drowsily  
“Because he’s alive, out there, somewhere, and when he does come back to London we’ll be the last people to know”  
“How very true, Mycroft. It’s a pity, you know, how much he avoids us”  
“Alone is what keeps us safe. That distance is the only reason there were three snipers rather than five”  
“It doesn’t mean I have to like it” she muttered to herself.

  


Unlike the woman, Greg hadn’t developed an immunity to the drug and after two pieces of the loaf he was ready to sleep.

  


In the morning, the night before felt like a distant memory; a bit fuzzy around the edges, but mostly clear. The main thing he remembered was the question,  
Do you believe in Sherlock Holmes?

  


Yes, he did. Gregory Lestrade believed in Sherlock Holmes, and everything he’d said and done. Sherlock was a genius, a sociopath and most importantly he wasn’t dead. Greg had faith and some days he thought he saw the younger man on the street. So far they’d all been false alarms, but eventually he’d be right. Eventually that man in the back of a taxi would be Sherlock, and god help him, Greg would wait, because he had faith in Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
